Page 13 of Priestly Sins

“She’s dead. Come get me,” I whispered before dropping the phone, still connected to my father in Boston, and walking aimlessly through the streets of New Orleans until I couldn’t walk anymore.

Shit!

My trip down memory lane does two things—ignites my rage and hollows my gut. It also distracts me from driving on the right side of the road—that is, the left side, and I swerve when oncoming traffic reminds me, honks and one-fingered salutes alike, that I don’t belong.

Nine

It takes more skill to understand the locals than it does to follow the map to the village of Knockferry. Upon arriving, I find a pub, just recognizing I haven’t eaten since the snack on the plane some twelve hours ago. I belly up to the bar, order a pint of whatever’s on tap and a bowl of Irish stew. Once done, I order another beer and make small talk with the barkeep. I thank him with a generous tip and fold back into my car to look at this land that my old man left me.

It’s on a hill outside the village, just up from the lake. I open the gate and drive through, despite the no trespassing sign, and wind through the brush until I find the clearing with a small stone cottage on it. An older man with a shock of white hair and deep, weathered skin sits outside smoking a cigarette with an orange cat winding between his legs. They both stop warily when I exit the car.

“Can I help you, lad?” He begins, only to pause and holler, “You’re Patrick O’Shaughnessy’s son. What in the blooming hell are you doing here?!” He promptly stands, walks into the house, leaving just enough room for the cat to glide in, and slams the door.

If I hadn’t spent the last little bit cruising down memory lane, I’d be more mellow and my emotions more in check. However, I have spent the last couple of hours cramped, irritable, and reliving the worst moment of my life, one that set shit in motion that I cannot come back from, so I do what I want and take my fist to the door to pound.

“Open up. I’m not leaving here until you do.”

I continue pounding.

My house. My land. My cat, for fuck’s sake.

So I can pound on my door if I damned well please.

“You can stay in there. I can stay out here. I have nothing but time.” That’s a lie, but what the hell? “I—”

“Don’t take that tone with me, O’Shaughnessy!” The door swings wide under my pounding flesh.

“How do you know my father?”

“Biologically, that’s how!”

“What the fuck?”

“Don’t’cha know? Your da was born in this country. Has family in this country.”

“Dad was born in Boston, Mass. Not in—”

“Bullshit.”

“Killian”—his hand shoots out, his eyes daring me to greet him—“O’Shaughnessy. Your da’s brother. Again, what in the blooming hell are you doing here?”

* * *

At least he has Kilbeggan.I take four fingers with this glass. Neat. No need to make it easier to digest. Drink imitating life.

“Thank you for the whiskey.” I nod and toast him with my glass while sitting around a small fire in the stone hearth.

My mind whirls. How did I not know about an uncle? Family land in Ireland? My dad was such a fucking liar. Everything about him. His “businesses,” his friends—or rather connections—hiseverythingwas such bullshit.

“Forgive me,” I mumble, barely above a whisper. “I’m at a loss.”

Killian smiles and nods, but his look has an edge of bitterness not comfort.

“I… I never knew,” I begin again, but all eloquence is gone. “Can you fill me in?”

“Your da’s an ass. End of. Good talk.”

That gets a bark of laughter from me that surprises us both.